


Stranger

by notdindjarin



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Dominant Mando, Dry Humping, F/M, Grinding, Jealousy, Little Bit O Angst, Mentions of Slavery, Mentions of weapons, Mild Smut, Smut, implied PTSD, jealous mando, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notdindjarin/pseuds/notdindjarin
Summary: The Mandalorian promised to watch over you at the gala, though his beskar forces him to be created. In his absence, you share a dance with a quiet, brown-eyed stranger. After the gala, the Mandalorian decides to express his feelings about the interaction.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 81
Kudos: 323





	1. The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> ayee this is my first mando story. lmk what you think and if i should make this into a series (or at least make a part 2). also this is my first time writing smutish stuff (which is why i didnt go full out smut) so lmk if it stinks i guess.

It was an in and out run. You get prettied up, go into the gala, find the quarry, and follow him out. At least, it was that simple on paper.

When the words ‘slave traders’ passed through the Mandalorian’s modulator, you stiffened. Your eyes remained fixed on the passing stars, though you seemed so far away to the Mandalorian. He watched as a trembling hand rose to rub the scar at the base of your neck, where he helped you remove the chip not long ago.

You had been enslaved by some bastard in the slums of Coruscant, the same man who the Mandalorian happened to have a puck on. When Mando came around to picking up the quarry, he started yelling about making a deal. Quarries always try to make deals, it’s just in their nature. What surprised the Mandalorian, however, was that the quarry was offering him a girl- _a slave._

True to his word, in the back room of the quarry’s cramped apartment was _you_. As the Mandalorian approached, you were deathly quiet, so much so that the tapping of the Mandalorian’s pulse rifle as it made contact with his beskar armor was amplified. When Mando knelt before you, you wouldn’t look at him. It wasn’t until the Mandalorian spoke that you actually acknowledged his presence.

_“He didn’t sell you.”_ You stayed tense, so he added, _“I can take out the chip.”_

You followed him wordlessly that night, but it wasn’t until the quarry was put in carbonite that you let your name slip. He didn’t acknowledge it any more than allowing the name pass through his own lips and modulator once, _recognition_. Even as he delicately maneuvered the viroblade and gloved fingers to remove your chip, you were silent.

The Mandalorian offered you the chance to stay the night on the Crest. You accepted. Though the next morning, he didn’t kick you out.

After the Child left with the Jedi, days on the Crest were empty. He would never admit it aloud, but the Mandalorian was lonely. So, he allowed you to stay, and you did.

“Slavers?” You asked, voice shaking.

The Mandalorian chose not to answer you verbally. He knew himself well enough to know that however hard he tried, his tone would be more condescending than comforting. Instead, Mando nodded. He didn't know if you saw it, your eyes were still focused on the passing galaxy, but the silence would suffice as an answer.

He was surprised you didn’t come to the realization. Canto Bight’s reputation was not the cleanest, and you were smart, so he assumed you would have suspected slaver activity.

“Mando,” you whispered. There was nobody else on the ship, yet it was as if you were extra careful with your words, making sure that only your trusted Mandalorian heard you. “I can’t go in there, what if someone in there notices me?”

The truth was that nobody would recognize you. Slaves escape all the time, and unless they stole or had some remarkable ability, the slavers didn’t care. Sure, they lost a few credits in the process, but it meant nothing in the long run.

The look on your face told the Mandalorian that this logic wouldn’t ease your fears.

“What if they take me back?”

“They won’t.”

“Mando, you don’t know that.” You shifted in the co-pilot seat, bringing your feet up, so you could rest your head on your knees. “There has to be another way to catch the quarry. Do we know where he-?”

_“I’ll go in with you.”_ He didn’t know where the proposition came from, but it was worth it to him when you no stopped white-knuckling the armrest. “I’ll go in with you and make sure nobody gets close.”

  
Clearly his words weren’t enough, because the tension returned to your body. “If they see you, every gun in the building will be at your neck.”

You were right. There was no way he could walk in with you. They would know that the two of you were there for a bounty. Worse, they would attack, and you would put yourself at risk to come to his defense. The Mandalorian would never admit it, but he would be devastated if you got hurt because of him.

“You forget- _a Mandalorian sticks out like a sore thumb.”_

You were right again: a Mandalorian _would_ stick out. His T-visor alone probably haunts the memories of half of the sick bastards in that ballroom.

That moment, he envied Bo-Katan and her clan, who so readily took off their helmets. It offended him at first. Taking off the helmet was such a clear violation of the Creed and everything the Watch had taught him. But then again, what was the Watch? Was their Creed the true Creed of the Mandalorians? If he had followed their Creed, the Child would have died at the hands of the Imps, nor would he have ever said goodbye to the Child. Then, so willingly had the Mandalorian removed the helmet, for his _son._

The Mandalorian examined you. Your gaze was on his visor. You were staring so intently, yet your gaze was not quite aligned with his eyes. _Too far to the left,_ he noted. People rarely have their gaze in the right place, so he doesn’t blame you. The last person whose gaze he held was the Child’s, as the cloaked Jedi whisked him away. He since longed for that intimacy which his Creed forbade.

“I’ll go.”

“Mando, you _can’t.”_ You leaned in, face only a few inches from his mask. Your eyes still failed to find his. “If they see a Mandalorian-”

“They won’t see a Mandalorian.”

* * *

_They won’t see a Mandalorian._

You accepted a glass of wine from the server before you. He tried explaining the planetal origins of the drink and some other details that you may have cared about if you had the time and money, but you dismissed him with curt thanks. As he walked by, your eyes landed on the scar at the nape of his neck, so much like the one whose phantom pains kept you awake at night.

_Mando will protect you._ You wondered where he was. He promised to be there, but he clearly wasn’t in his armor. There were a few patrons with their face covered. You figured he blended in with them.

You downed your wine quicker than you should have, drawing a few disapproving looks from other guests. You smiled bashfully before handing the glass to a similarly-scarred server. Walking away, you wished that your dress had more fabric to cover the small patch of discolored skin on your neck.

You noticed you were in the middle of the ballroom floor a moment too late, as a predatory patron sneaked to your side. He was some sort of reptilian, with burning yellow eyes and accompanying yellow-toothed smile.

“I don’t suppose you have a dance partner?” He asked, slipping a webbed-hands around your waist. His other hand wrapped around your right hand.

You held back a cringe at the feel of the mucus that coated his skin. Instead, you smiled as sweetly as you could. After all, dancing wasn’t the worst idea. You would be centered in the middle of the room, moving around often, and getting plenty of different angles to look for your quarry.

“I suppose I do now.”

_This is perfect,_ you thought as you looked past your partner. So many people were dancing to the elegant music of the gala. You blended right in, while still being able to find you quarry. And it was all due to a handsy reptile.

Speaking of handsy, the reptile’s claws dug into your waist, grabbing your attention. “So,” he asked, “What’s your business?”

The question caught you off guard. In your panic over the presence of slavers, you hadn’t thought about coming up with a story. You hoped to just stay to the outside of the ballroom, avoiding contact with anybody except the quarry.

“My business?” You repeated, dumbfound.

“Yes,” the reptilian leaned in closer as he spoke. His breath was hot and sickly over your face, assaulting your nose with the rotten scent of whatever rancid creature the reptilian last indulged in for a meal. “Your _business.”_

“My business,” you started, drawing out each word, “is-”

Long, tan fingers- _human_ -gripped the cloth of the reptilian’s cloak. The reptilian tensed, claws digging even deeper into the flesh of your waist. Past the pain of your dance partner’s unforgiving grip, you were overwhelmed by the presence of another, the same man who held the reptilian.

Your eyes followed the length of his arm to his broad body. He was dressed well in a carefully-tailored outfit. It was pure black, like most other patrons of the gala, you included. The fabric of his garb was silky and luxurious, nearly identical to the fabric of your own dress.

His stance alone exuded a type of suffocating dominance. When you managed to tear your eyes from his body, your knees buckled. If it wasn’t for the tight grip of the reptilian, you would have been crumpled on the floor because of the man.

Curly brown hair, long enough to warrant a haircut, but not long enough that it was offensive or messy, framed a face carved by the fingers of the great Maker. He was older, with wrinkles embedded in his forehead and hugging his large brown eyes. _His eyes-_ they were looking at you so intensely, like you were the only person in the room, despite his firm grasp on the reptilian. The rest of his face was just as dizzying, with a strong hooked nose perched above the mustache that accompanied the rest of his patchy facial hair.

If only you had half the mind to think. Maybe your later realization that, besides his immaculate outfit, the man did not give the appearance of someone who had planned to attend a soiree of that caliber would have come to you earlier. Any level thought you had, however, disappeared as his tongue flicked out to run over his bottom lip.

Eyes locked, you and the man moved together. His hands replaced the reptilian’s grimy claws, providing a tender reprieve. Your arms looped around his neck as you took the first step of your shared dance.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “He was a bit forward.”

The man didn’t respond with anything more than a nod. Yet, his sparkling eyes alone had your heart racing in ways it hadn’t since you were a child.

For a fleeting moment, looking into the stranger’s eyes, you questioned just why the stars decided to align for you, an ex-slave turned bounty hunter, at that exact moment, on a planet filled to the brim with criminals and corruption. You could have stayed in the man’s arms forever, despite having been his acquaintance for mere minutes.

It dawned on you that you knew nothing of this man or his business at the gala. For all you knew, he could have been a slaver who caught sight of your scar and decided to investigate. But then, he looked at you with such fondness and, confusingly, _relief_. He looked like a starved man, finally granted a taste of the forbidden fruit.

“You look like you’ve been waiting for this,” you said, leaning closer into his embrace. “Like you’ve been waiting for me.”

The man simply shook his head. A smile tugged at his lips, and a single dimple appeared on his face. _Just one._ You bit back a smite at the sight of it. You unlooped a hand from around his neck and brought it to his face, cupping his jaw and running your thumb over the single divot. The impulse to plant a kiss over it overwhelmed you.

Suddenly, you were overcome with a sense of shame. You had known this man for mere moments. You didn’t even know his name. He hasn’t even said a word to you. Yet, you were daydreaming of such a tender exchange. You yanked your burning hand from his face, planting it appropriately back on his shoulder. “Forgive my forwardness. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, it’s just…”

You haven’t had that sort of fair attention in months. The Mandalorian wasn’t the warmest company. While you never expected him to fawn over you, you couldn’t help but wish that he gave you the slightest bit of attention. A ‘good morning’ when you approached him in the cockpit, instead of a grunt. Praise when you fix a part of the Crest, instead of a simple nod. A hug after you wake up screaming from a dream- no, _nightmare_ -that the slavers found you, instead of a disconnected, ‘you’re fine’.

Despite his curtness and obvious disinterest, you longed for the Mandalorian. Each time your bodies brushed one another in the tight quarters of the Crest or when he held your hips as he taught you how to shoot a blaster, your heart burst. But he was unapproachable- a man behind a mask.

The man dipped his head to look at you better. His brows furrowed, deepening the lines on his forehead and casting shadows in his eye sockets. Yet, his eyes remained bright, reflecting every golden light illuminating the grand ballroom.

You offered your name, but the man didn’t offer his. If it weren’t for his silent responses in your (largely one-sided) conversation, you would have guessed that he didn’t know basic. Maybe he couldn’t speak it, only understand it. Or maybe you were being bothersome, chatting up the ear of your poor dance partner, no different than the reptilian before him.

Guilt settled in. Maybe you _were_ irritating. Maybe the man was waiting for another lonely soul to appear, so he could leave you to dance with them.

Your worries disappeared when your partner leaned in. It was miniscule compared with the closeness you already shared. But instead of only feeling his body heat radiating, you could feel his breath fanning over your face, over every subtle ridge and seeping into every pore.

The man turned his face, cheek facing you and lips nearly brushing your ears.

So quiet, only for your ears, he whispered, “Din.”

His voice was raw. The brassiness of his tone was muddled by the air which fought to hold his words down. It sounded as if he wasn’t used to speaking so quietly, like his voice always needed to maintain a certain volume. Perhaps he used a modulator. Modulators required a certain volume to pick up a voice, though you doubted that he used one. Modulators were so uncommon, once used by the clones, then troopers. The only other people who used one either needed it because they couldn’t breathe the air around them and were forced to wear a mask (you greatly doubted this, as the man was breathing just fine before you) or if they were a Mandalorian.

_Mando._

Your heart dropped.

_You forgot about the quarry._

You placed your hand on the man’s- _Din’s_ -chest and pushed him away gently. His hands remained on your waist, and he opened and closed his mouth several times, contemplating whether or not he wanted to question your behavior.

Your eyes scanned the ballroom, examining the features of each and every person in the room and trying to match it up with your memorized image of the quarry.

Just beyond the bar, standing aloof was a Weequay, cradling a glass of what looked like spotchka. He was clearly uncomfortable, with a tense figure and eyes darting around the room.

_The quarry._

“I-I have to go,” your hand came back to cradle Din’s face, “I’m sorry.”

Your hands fell, now empty of Din’s warmth. Just as you moved past him, you felt a pressure around your wrist. It yanked you back, straight into Din’s arms.

Your back was to his chest, and his arms wrapped around you tightly. You turned your head so you could see his face. The look he gave you was practically _predatory_ , and there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You had no time to question his actions before he pressed his lips to yours.

The contrast of his soft lips against your own versus his rough facial hair was dizzying. His arms tighten around you, keeping you standing tall. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss.

A moment shy of the kiss becoming indecent, Din pulled away. His thumb came up to the corner of your lips, where it gently wiped. Heat rose to your cheeks at the realization that he was cleaning up smudged rouge.

With a wink, Din helped steady you and send you off in the direction of the quarry.

* * *

“I have money! _Please,_ you don’t need to do this!”

The quarry started begging before you even cuffed him. It was a difficult grab. He was much larger than you. Your advantage came in when the dumb Weequay ran himself into a corner. You drew a vibroblade and the cuffs from a hollister on your thigh while the quarry shivered.

With every step closer to the ship, the quarry howled louder and louder. It wasn’t until the ramp to the ship closed that he finally accepted his fate and quieted down. He didn’t even resist going into the carbonite freezer.

Once the Weequay was finally stored, you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. It wasn’t a long night or even a difficult bounty, you were just _tired._

Mando wasn’t back yet. The lights of the Crest were off when you approached. He always made sure at least the cockpit lights were on. It was an unspoken routine between the two of you. When the Mandalorian was alone, he could keep the lights off. His helmet had night vision, and having the lights off saved power. It wasn’t until you nearly broke your wrist after tripping on a box in the pitch black that he started to keep the lights on.

So, you were alone.

You decided to get the ship ready for launch in the Mandalorian’s absence. It was always useful to take off as soon as possible once collecting a quarry, just in case any of their friends decided to get back.

You didn’t even bother changing, figuring that it was only a matter of time before Mando got back and relieved you of launch-duty. _Why not just get ahead?_

The doors to the cockpit opened, and you nearly screamed.

_“Mando!”_ You let out a sigh of relief once you recognized your companion. “You gave me a heart attack. What the hell are you doing back so soon? I thought you were still hiding out at the gala.”

The Mandalorian didn’t answer you. He remained seated in the pilot’s chair. He was flicking a few buttons and levers, and you realized that he was preparing for takeoff. You sat in the co-pilot’s seat and took in the sight of him.

He was tense, that much was clear to you. The leather of his gloves pulled tight around his knuckles as he gripped the lever to finally take off. Once you were in the atmosphere and he switched to the hyperspace lever, the gloves were just as tight. You didn’t ask him about it, because if there was one thing you learned about the Mandalorian, it’s that he would only talk if he wanted to.

Finally, you entered hyperspace.

“I’m beat,” you said softly. You stood up and began to head to the cockpit door. “I’m going to sleep, you let me know if-”

“Have fun?”

You froze, hand stilled on the door controls. You duly noted the fact that the door had not opened yet, despite you pressing on the controls. However, your attention was on the Mandalorian, whose mood was far more hostile than you had expected.

It would have been a simple, innocent question had it come from anybody except him. You knew him well enough to know that _“Have fun?”_ is anything but normal. Ever since you joined Mando and assisted on bounties, it was always, “You’re safe? _Good_. You got the quarry? _Good_.” He had never once asked you something quite like that, at least, not under these circumstances.

You could either ignore the question or humor him. Seeing that the door refused to slide open, you were forced to humor him.

“Yeah, _fun_ ,” you said, turning around to rest your back against the door. The cool metal bit at the skin exposed by your dress.

The crest was always cold, cold enough that you needed plenty of layers, but it was still livable. You envied the Mandalorian in that moment, whose armor and multiple layers of undergarments undoubtedly kept him warm. You wanted to change, but the door wouldn’t open. You suspected that the Mandalorian and his unusual question had something to do with it. “I had as much fun as I could with the threat of being thrown back into slavery lurking behind me.”

The pilot’s seat, and the Mandalorian in it, turned around. His visor, empty as the infinite universe you traveled together in, was pointed at your form. Under his blank gaze, you somehow felt so exposed.

The Mandalorian spread his legs, knees touching the armrests at each side of him. It wasn’t very wide, just an inch or so past his shoulders, but it was enough for your gaze to quickly dip to his lap and the _delicious_ span of it. His gloved fingers delicately traced the beskar covering his thigh. The contrast between his gentle touch and cold approach was dizzying.

“That was enough fun to throw yourself at some stranger.”

You short-circuited. The Mandalorian’s words didn’t fully reach your ears, and when they did, you couldn’t even comprehend the weight of them. You thought it was a trick of your ears, or perhaps his modulator not working properly. Maybe, just maybe, those words hadn’t come from him.

But then again, there was a voice of doubt nagging you. Mando was there. He was watching over you. He _had_ to have seen you dancing with Din. If he didn’t, then he wasn’t even at the gala in the first place, but that wasn’t the case. That would make Mando a liar. If there was one thing you’ve learned in your time with him, it’s that the Mandalorian was a man of his word.

“Pardon?” You whispered, secretly hoping that your words failed to reach his ears.

“There was a quarry- _a murder_ -at that gala.” Your heart raced at the Mandalorian’s words. His tone changed from blank to venomous so fast that you got whiplash. “And you just let him _feel you up.”_

The Mandalorian gripped the armrests and pushed himself up. In two swift strides, he had you sandwiched between his large form and the cool cockpit door. His gloved hand was planted firmly next to your head. His visor was tilted down so he could look at you. Beskar threatened to brush your nose. The new position had your mind reeling, and a heat pooling between your thighs.

“M-Mando,” you stammered, “I don’t-”

“Did you want him to touch you?”

The Mandalorian asked you this just as he shifted his leg. Before you could process what he was doing, his thigh rested between your legs, so close to where you never predicted you would need him.

“Touch me?”

The Mandalorian tutted, “Don’t play dumb, mesh’la. You know I don’t like that.” His hand shifted, coming to caress your face. “I saw it- _the look in your eyes._ Everyone saw it. So _desperate.”_

His beskar-covered thigh shifted upward slightly, finally providing you with the delicious friction you needed. A garbled moan left your lips and your head fell to Mando’s shoulder. He didn’t make any movement to stop you, so you began small ministrations, rubbing yourself against the cool, smooth plate.

“Open your mouth,” Mando said as his thumb traced your chin. His fingers moved so deftly, so _gently_. He was so put together, and then there was you, grinding on his thigh and whimpering.

Apparently, you took too long for Mando’s liking, because a hand suddenly came to grab your hair, pulling it harshly. Your eyes locked onto his visor, and the Mandalorian repeated the command, _“Open your mouth.”_

You complied and watched as his chest rose and fell with deep breaths at the sight of you. Suddenly, a leather-covered thumb filled your mouth. You closed your eyes as a gargled moan bubbled up from your throat.

_“Suck.”_

You didn’t hesitate to wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking and gently swirling your tongue around the digit placed so gently in your mouth. Your eyes locked with the Mandalorian’s visor as you moaned softly, and you could swear that you heard a gentle moan, so quiet that not even his modulator picked it up.

Clearing his throat, the Mandalorian spoke again, “I bet you wish I was him, hm? You wish it was him that you were grinding on- _Kriff!”_ The Mandalorian cursed as your hip bumped against his codpiece, “Wish- Wish you were back in that ballroom, grinding against him like a desperate- _fuck!”_ Your hip bumped his codpiece again, this time his hand came to grip your hip, guiding your ministrations. “-Like a whore. You wanted him to take you right in front of everyone, didn’t you? I could tell just by the way you let him touch-”

_“Mando!”_ You gasped around his thumb when he shifted the angle of his leg ever so slightly, increasing the pressure against you.

The Mandalorian didn’t let up. “He shoulda shoved you right to the floor, held you there and ripped this dress right off of you.” Mando took his thumb out of mouth, and his hand traced the side of your face down to your neck. “How many credits did this dress cost you, mesh’la? How many months did you save up for this little number? All for him to rip it off of you. What a shame…” The glistening, clothed thumb came to caress the spot just below your jaw as the rest of the hand wrapped around your throat. He applied pressure, softly at first, increasing so you could feel your pulse against his fingers, and a tingling at your lips as they dealt with the beginning of blood loss.

“Yeah,” the Mandalorian breathed. “You’d love that.”

Suddenly, his hands were gone. His thigh was removed from between your legs, leaving you bucking against air. You didn’t register the loss before you crumpled to the floor. You gasped, hands coming to grasp at your neck where his fingers were just moments ago.

“Where is the quarry?”

The cockpit was spinning. You tried grasping at the floor beneath you to ground yourself, but to no avail. Your mind and heart raced, reeling at Mando’s words. Your body burned at the loss of his touch. You tasted the salty-musky aftertaste of his glove on your tongue. Your senses attempted to recreate what had just happened as your mind slowly pieced together the past few minutes.

You blinked, and suddenly the black T-visor filled your vision. It wasn’t as close as before, when his finger was in your mouth and a modulated voice told you so nicely to suck, but it was close enough to make your head spin again.

_“Where is the quarry?”_ Mando repeated, and your stomach sank. His tone was flat, like it had been before that. Before he held you and whispered quietly the most depraved things you’ve heard in your whole life. Instead, the Mandalorian was interrogating you.

“The quarry…” you repeated, “Oh...the quarry’s in-in the freezer.” Your head fell back down to the cockpit floor. Your eyes scanned the enclosed space, hardly noticing the door sliding open. “Just in there… yeah…”

The Mandalorian leaned in, looking down at you. An indifferent finger came to trace your jaw, before suddenly pulling away. Mando sat right back down in his pilot’s chair, legs spread just like before. The empty visor passed over your form one last time before the pilot’s seat spun back around.

You thought you were done with the torture, but just as you began to lift yourself up, a modulated voice filled the cockpit.

“Good girl.”


	2. The Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok. so this is a series now. 
> 
> let me put out some background stuff: so season 1 and 2 of the show happened all as it did, with the exception of the Razor Crest being blown up because i like the crest so mind your business (also the crest has a different layout and can somehow fit two different small living quarters, use your imagination to figure it out)
> 
> also, this chapter has no smut but i have another chapter fully written out that has smut. i'll put it out maybe this weekend.
> 
> also (last also i promise) i only read through this once so if there are mistakes im sorry

The Razor Crest was quiet. Though, every few minutes the silence would be broken as the poor vessel let out a creak or groan. 

The Mandalorian was never talkative. You picked up on his preference for silence not long after he picked you up. You didn’t mind the wordless hours. In fact, you were used to them. Your previous line of work didn’t create many openings for small talk, so you weren’t bothered when Mando would go a full day without speaking. As time passed and you met more talkative strangers, you found yourself growing fond of a healthy back-and-forth. However, your first attempts of striking up conversation with the Mandalorian ended with dismissal. You soon learned when he was most receptive to conversation, and eventually, you two came to the point where you could freely speak your mind around one another.

That is, until the gala. Until the Mandalorian pushed you against the wall and said the most crude things and acted like you were _his,_ but then left you high and dry, like it all meant nothing.

Since then, the Crest was silent. You tried speaking with him the next day, but the Mandalorian only responded with grunts, just like when you first met. He wouldn’t even give you a glance when you were in proximity of each other. After the third day, anger settled into your bones, and you started giving Mando the silent treatment. If he cared about your change in demeanor, he was certainly good at hiding it. 

So, when you woke up from a nightmare by the Mandalorian gently shaking you, you were, to say the least, surprised. You couldn’t remember exactly what it was about or how long it lasted. All you knew was that it got tears spilling and your heart racing. 

The Mandalorian peered down at you. The indifferent glare of his visor did nothing to comfort your frantic state. “You’re gonna rip the sheets if you keep pulling them,” he stated, so plainly, as if you hadn’t been ignoring each other for weeks.

You frowned at his curtness. _So he’s speaking now,_ you thought. Looking down at your hands, you realized you _were_ gripping the sheets tightly, and they _were_ already quite threadbare. Though, those facts did nothing to quell your anger at the Mandalorian’s cold prose. Still, you released the sheets, figuring they would do you no good ripped, even if it cost acknowledging that the one person in the galaxy you were pissed at was right.

“I’m handing in the pucks today. You can stay.”

You furrowed your brows, _were you already on Nevarro?_ Judging by the fact that the ship’s engines were off, you supposed so. “No,” you groaned, kicking away your thin blankets. “I’ll come.”

You didn’t want to come. However, you knew that if you stayed in bed, Greef would only offer Mando half of the pucks, as is guild protocol. Mando was polite and wouldn’t blame you or make back-handed comments because of the loss, but you didn’t want to waste credits on lost jobs.

You pushed yourself up and out of your cot, past the Mandalorian. “Let me just get dressed…” You trailed off as you searched your room for clothes. There were a handful of tops, but each was dirty. One had a food stain you didn’t have the will to clean, another was caked in mud, and the others were covered in blood, either from you or a quarry. You could have just worn your sleep shirt, but it was so thin it would have been indecent to wear in public. Hell, it was probably inappropriate to bear yourself to Mando in the threadbare piece. “I don’t have a top.”

Mando sighed, “There’s some in my room, be fast.”

You nodded, slipping past him into his small quarters. Unlike yours, Mando’s room was cleaned with a warrior’s precision. His blanket was tucked in tight, and the single pillow on his bed was fluffed to perfection. There weren’t even personal items present to clutter the space, only a single, metal ball, resting on the table beside his bed.

You’d seen that ball many times before and were always curious about its history. However, after you stumbled in the cockpit late one night and caught him holding it to his chest while sniffling quietly, you figured it would be best not to drop the subject, leaving it to your imagination.

Scanning the rest of the small quarters, your eyes landed on the armor closet he kept his clothes in. You pulled the door open and froze. 

Folded neatly on the top of his clothes piles was a tunic made of velvet black fabric. It was luxurious and undoubtedly expensive. Your fingers ran over the soft piece as your blood slowly turned to ice in your veins. It's a garment you’d only come across once in a lifetime, a regal piece. It belonged to a man whose profession was excessively lucrative. 

Despite the rarity of the piece, you knew you had seen it before. After all, something of that magnitude would never escape your memory. Images of a candle-lit ballroom and a handsome dance partner with a single dimpled smile flashed across your mind.

It was Din’s.

So how exactly did it come into Mando’s possession?

* * *

At first, Mando thought you were mad at him. It would make sense. After all, the long silence couldn’t have just been getting on _his_ nerves. Yet, he thought back to when he woke you up. You first drew Mando’s attention when you began whimpering in your sleep, but it wasn’t until those wimpers turned to blood-curdling screams that he decided to wake you. Despite your dazed state, you had seemed more calm to Mando than hostile. So as you walked a full ten feet ahead of him to the cantina and refused to look at or speak to Mando, he figured you just weren’t ready to talk. Not mad- simply shaken up. However, when you slid in next to Greef instead of Mando, flags were raised. 

Mando examined you during the whole exchange. Nothing escaped him. Not the way your hand trembled when you grabbed and downed the shot Greef had set out, which you _never drank_ . Greef always had two shots out on the table. One for him and one for you, and despite your polite refusal Greef insisted that the service droid poured the two, just in case. When you eagerly downed a shot and asked for another, Mando knew something was wrong. But it was when he placed the pucks on the table and you _flinched_ , that he knew what exactly your problem was.

_You were afraid._

When the server came over to refill your shot, you asked her politely to leave the bottle. The Mandalorian watched as you took a long swig from the bottle, before slamming it against the table. It wasn’t until Mando and Greef’s small talk reached a grand total of two minutes that you lashed out and insisted on finishing the deal and leaving.

So, there the Mandalorian was, pucks in hand, walking alone up the ramp of the Razor Crest. You weren’t trying to abandon him, that much was clear by the fact that you didn’t try to close the ramp or even turn on ground security. Though, when you finally came into his line of sight, pressed against the weapons closet with your trusty viroblade in hand, Mando was back on edge.

The Mandalorian stopped, leaving a few feet of comfortable distance between you two. He wanted to speak, but didn’t quite know what words would be best. He didn’t even know why you were so worked up. Suddenly, out of the blue you start cowering from him. And now you had your viroblade pointed in his direction. It wouldn’t do much damage to him; the motor broke on a job last month. In essence, the viroblade was just a dull, rusty knife. To do real damage, you would have to aim for a non-armored part of his body, and in the time that you would take to lunge for it, Mando would be able to stop you. The threat offended him regardless. 

“These pucks,” you finally said, “They’re registered in our names. I will see their fulfilment with you, but after that I’m done.” You shook your head, readjusting your grip on the viroblade, “You will leave me on Nevarro and I will find my own way in the galaxy.”

With that, you turned on your heels and climbed up the ladder to the cockpit, and the Mandalorian was left with more questions than answers.

* * *

Din was dead.

Din was dead, and it was all your fault.

You shouldn’t have danced with him. When he pushed that reptilian away, you should have said thank you and walked off to find the quarry. But then he licked his lips and smiled at you, and you melted. He didn’t even say a word before you were putty in his hands.

Of course the Mandalorian would see. He promised to watch over you. You just didn’t expect him to lash out like that. After months of his indifference, you simply figured that Mando wasn’t interested in you in that way.

But then he pinned you against that cockpit door and guided your ruttings against his thigh, providing you the perfect images for your many nights alone in your bunk. He whispered to you everything you secretly desired to hear from him, so perverse, yet so right it almost made up for him leaving you high and dry that night.

But none of the sweet words that passed through his modulator made up for Din- _what_ _he did_ to Din.

You still couldn’t believe it. The Mandalorian killed a man in cold blood just because he put his hands on you. You thought the jealousy was simply something to tease you about and spark some foreplay, not something to kill over.

“Mesh’la,” Mando called through the door of the cockpit. He had been trying to grab your attention for the last few minutes. You never answered him. “Mesh’la, _please,_ tell me what’s wrong.”

Mesh’la.

_Don’t play dumb, mesh’la. You know I don’t like that._

_How many credits did this dress cost you, mesh’la? How many months did you save up for this little number?_

_Mesh’la._

You loved hearing that word. It was so silky smooth and held a weight that you couldn’t yet define. You wondered in the darkness of your bunk for the last few nights, even when you were mad and not speaking to him, wondering what exactly that word means, but hearing it in that moment made you pissed.

Pissed at yourself for listening to him.

Pissed at yourself for staying with him that first night he offered.

Pissed at yourself for partnering with him for bounties.

Pissed at yourself for putting Din at risk.

_For killing Din._

“Please…” The Mandalorian was softer now. He begged in a way you never thought he would. If it weren’t for your current situation, you would have found yourself worried for him, but it was not the time. “Let me in, _please.”_

You couldn’t keep him locked out forever. He could unlock the door with his vambrance at any moment. The only reason he wasn’t already in there was…

You didn’t know why he wasn’t already in the cockpit. There was quite literally nothing stopping him, unless his vambrance was somehow broken. Though after seeing the brutality his armor has endured, you doubted a morning of leisurely deal making would be the tipping point.

There was another knock at the door, “If you’re not going to let me in, at least take-off the ship.”

You weighed your options. You could keep Mando locked out and launch the ship yourself. Or, you could let him in, have him take off, and willingly confine yourself in a small space with a murderer. There was a clear winner between the two, and yet you felt drawn to option two.

 _It’s fine,_ you reasoned to yourself, _stay in the cockpit during launch and then dip after the hyperspace jump. Just don’t give him a reason to kill you._

So, you did what you had been fearing for the last two hours and let in the Mandalorian.

He was sitting with his back against the door, and when it slid open, he nearly fell back. It would have been cute had you not been fearing for your life. 

The Mandalorian scrambled to his feet, but didn’t speak. He didn’t even try to move past you. Instead, he simply trained his visor on you. It took a moment of confusion for you to realize that he was _waiting on you._

“Go,” you spat. “But as soon as we’re in hyperspace, you’re leaving the cockpit.” The Mandalorian nodded, but remained still until you stepped to the side and motioned for him to enter.

There was always something therapeutic about watching Mando work. Whether it was hunting, cleaning weapons, or piloting, he was a natural. One time, after he noticed your interest, he asked you why you stared. The question had caught you off guard, but you mustered an answer.

_“It’s like a dance.”_

And it was. He moved with such grace and confidence, like there was a song playing through his helmet, so quiet that only he could hear it. It’s the same way he moved when taking down a bounty. Mando had a clear routine, and after so many years, it was perfected.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the jump into hyperspace. You gritted your teeth as the pressure pasted you to the copilot’s seat. Yet the force soon disappeared, and you were freed and again aware of the Mandalorian’s presence. His visor was trained on you in a blank gaze, though you could only imagine what was going on under the mask. That was your one peeve when you first started traveling with Mando, you could never tell what he was feeling. Sometimes when quarries would heckle, they would accuse Mando of being with a droid, and while you’d never admit it to him, you sometimes thought that yourself.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Mando asked, “Or am I going to have to guess?” He was irritated, that much was clear. While his mask was pointed at you, the rest of his body faced straight forward, as if you weren’t even there. His gloved fingers tapped against the armrests impatiently.

You tried speaking, but your throat was too dry. You swallowed in a feeble attempt to ease the feeling, but it worked so poorly that your voice still came out hoarse. “I was in chains my whole life, Mando.” He tilted his head in clear confusion, but you continued. Each word from your mouth was deliberate and carefully picked. They came out low, to not bother the volatile man before you. “Finally, I’m out of them and with you, and I think- _I hope -_ that I have freedom. But, then you-”

You couldn’t bring yourself to speak any more. You were almost embarrassed by the situation. A naive slave girl finally finds freedom and throws herself at the first stranger who gives her a second glance. You were so stupid to blindly trust him, and now it was biting you in the ass. The _second_ you let yourself truly let go and just _breathe_ , the Mandalorian came to ruin it.

While you thought, the Mandalorian did the last thing you wanted him to do. You couldn’t process what exactly he _was_ doing until you felt a gloved hand cup your face. His thumb extended from your outer cheek to rub away a tear you didn’t even know you had shed.

The hand slid down your face and across the span of your jaw, until his thumb rested against your bottom lip, _just like it had that night._ He touched you with those same gloves. It must have been mere minutes after he killed Din. That must have been why the lights were off when you first entered the ship- he had just stumbled into the cockpit when you showed up.

Feeling his hand caress your face made you sick.

You grabbed his wrist and pushed it away, breathing heavily through gritted teeth. “I need to be alone.”

Before you could stand, Mando swiftly moved so he blocked your path. Instinctually, your hand flew to your viroblade, but Mando’s gloved hand grabbed your wrist. He didn’t use much pressure, but you still gasped at the abruptness of it.

“I’m tired of this.” Mando plucked the viroblade from your hand and tossed it onto the console behind him.

You shook your head. “Don’t do that,” you muttered.  
  
Genuinely, the Mandalorian was baffled by your words, “Do what?”

“Act like I’m the crazy one.”

Mando’s grip on your wrist tightened as he pulled you up from your chair. Your faces were just millimeters apart, and it made your heart _race._ You wondered what was going on underneath the beskar. While you couldn’t see through the visor, you knew he was angry- nose flared, brows furrowed, lips pulled into a frown. If only you could put a face to that expression.

“I think you’re forgetting,” Mando growled, “what’s been happening here.”

You panicked at his words. This _did_ look bad for you. First you distance yourself from Mando, then days later, you go into hysterics and pull a blade on him not once, but _twice._ And all of your erratic behavior happens mere days after he killed the man who you expressed interest in. You weren’t making it easy for him to keep you around.

Surprisingly, the Mandalorian didn’t lash out. Instead, he sighed and released you from his grip. He even stepped back, giving you room to breathe, though not enough for you to walk away.

Mando was silent for a long moment, as if he was thinking of something to say. You were getting impatient and almost slipped past him to leave to your quarters, but then he spoke. His voice was soft, _pleading with you_ in a way you’ve never heard him do before, “Can you please tell me what’s bothering you?”

You could have lied to him. You could have said that the nightmare had you on edge, and you didn’t want him around you. It was a lousy fib, but the Mandalorian was not one for discussion and would have dropped the whole topic if you said it. Though, you knew you couldn’t just swallow the truth.

“You killed him.”

The Mandalorian tensed. He was silent as your words sank in. He finally broke the silence with a firm, _“What?”_

You scoffed at him, slipping past him and out of the cockpit. Knowing Mando was following you, you stomped to his quarters and hastily pointed at the crumpled cloth that tainted the pristine room. Mando sucked in a breath behind you.

“How-” You punctuated your words by jabbing your extended finger. “ _How_ did you get his clothing with-without-” Your words melted into a sob, and you crumpled into yourself on his bed, digging the palms of your hands into your eyes. Mando didn’t speak as you cried. He merely stands there, an impassive figure.

“You killed him,” you whispered.

He once again chose not to say anything. You thought that he left the quarters until the bed sank next to you. Your heart sunk. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was still suffocating.

“You saw his clothes in my room, and you assume that I killed him,” Mando accused.

You swallowed, “Yes.”

“Mesh’la,” Mando’s voice was soft. “I couldn’t go into the gala. I knew I couldn’t protect you the way I needed to, so I hired this man- a vagabond, I suppose -from Canto Bight. I asked him to go in my place.”

 _Maker,_ you thought as your breathing sped up. You didn’t know if his explanation was making you feel better or worse.

Mando nudged the discarded piece of clothing with his foot, while his hands folded neatly in his lap. “This outfit- I bought it at the same vendor you bought your dress.”

You cursed at yourself. That’s why the fabric was so similar to the dress, because Mando bought it from the same place. It was probably cut from the same sheet that your dress had been. 

“I paid the man. I asked him to watch over you and protect you if anything were to happen.”

You wanted to believe it. You had no desire to distrust Mando, but a nagging voice in your head screamed at you. 

“Mando,” you said. He turned his head slightly, but not enough so he could fully look at you. “What’s his name?”

Mando tensed. It was so slight, but you noticed. You always noticed.

“Excuse me?"

Your next words were curt, gritted out through clenched teeth. You didn’t mean for them to sound hostile, but they did. _“What. Is. It.”_

A suffocating silence fell over the room, as you both waited on bated breath for something- _anything_ -to happen. It seemed as if even the Crest herself was quiet, hushing the hum of her engines as she waited for Mando to speak.

Finally, after a modulated sign, Mando spoke. His words were stilted and punctuated, as if it hurt Mando to even say them. “Din. Din Djarin.”

 _“Djarin?”_ You furrowed your brows at the surname. It was unfamiliar, and you couldn’t pinpoint the planet of origin by memory. Maybe Din truly was a lowly drifter. “He didn’t tell me his surname.”

Mando shifted uncomfortably next to you. “He- uh... told me so I could forward the credits to him through the system.”

So the Mandalorian hires a man from the streets of the shadiest city in the galaxy to watch over you. He lends him luxurious clothes and promises a healthy amount of credits afterwards. 

The situation bothered you. While Mando didn’t kill Din, knowing that Mando trusted your liberty in the hands of some shady drifter irked you. “You trusted a vagabond with my _life?”_ You could tell that Mando wanted to speak, but didn’t. So you continued, “You trusted a vagabond to prevent me from being kidnapped and thrown back into slavery, who then _kissed me?”_ That last bit was somewhat your own fault, but, for the sake of the argument, it was because Mando let Din close you.

“I needed to make sure you were safe, mesh’la. I trusted him to watch over you because _I_ couldn’t.” Mando gripped his knees, leaning forward slightly, “I told him not to touch you unless you were in danger. _The kiss…_ that was-” The Mandalorian sighed, “When he came back to return the clothes and fill me in on the gala, he told me about what happened between you two. I was so-”

“So pissed and jealous that you… did what you did in the cockpit.”

Mando chuckled, “That’s one way to put it.”

You closed your eyes and hummed. You leaned back on Mando’s bed, taking the opportunity to clear your head. You counted each breath, muscles relaxing more and more each time.

“I… understand if you don’t believe me, but-”

“Mando,” you hummed, eyes still closed. “I believe you.” You opened your eyes and turned your head to face him. He was backlit, making it difficult for your eyes to focus. “I’m sorry for accusing you. I’ve just been a little-”

“Worked up. Me too.” Mando’s hand came to rest on your thigh, and you nearly choked on your spit in shock. _Stars,_ after the cockpit you couldn’t get enough of Mando’s touch. “It’s not your fault. I just didn’t… talk to you.”

With a gentle pat on your thigh, the Mandalorian stood from his bed. ”Get some rest,” his modulated voice was low, _calm_. “It’s a short flight. We’ll be landing early tomorrow.” In a few short strides, he was out of the room, leaving you with your own thoughts, though there weren’t many. The only thing plaguing your mind was the fact that the Mandalorian himself had given you the closest to an actual apology than he had in nearly six months you’ve known him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please lmk what you think.


	3. The Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hello

“So, what’s the deal with the quarry?” You asked, lowering yourself into the copilot’s seat.

“She’s originally from Dathomir, killed some councilman on Coruscant, and fled to the Outer Rim.”

The Razor Crest lurched as it jumped out of hyperspace, forcing you to brace yourself on the armrests beside you.

“Does she have a history?” You asked as you scanned the holo image of the Zabrak. To be frank, the woman didn’t look very threatening to you. You’ve seen plenty of killers in your life, especially after partnering with Mando. They always had a sort of glare that  _ dared  _ you to cross them and see what they’ll do. The Zabrak didn’t have that look. For a brief and shameful moment, you wondered if Mando had that look.

“No,” Mando confirmed your prediction. “It’s a first-time kill.”

The ship bounced as it landed on the rocky terrain of whatever obscure planet the quarry led you to. Hydraulics hissed out from behind you as the ramp to the ship lowered.

“Sounds like free credits.”

The Mandalorian cut the engines, and their hum slowly faded into silence. “It is,” Mando turned his chair to face you, “but you’re staying here.”

You blinked at him a few times. “Huh?”

“You grabbed the last quarry on your own.” The cockpit door slid open with a hiss, and Mando stepped through, turning to face you. “Consider this my thanks.”

_ “Thanks?” _

You scrambled out of your seat and scurried after Mando through the ship. When he opened the armory, you placed your hand on the door and rested all of your weight against it to prevent him from grabbing the necessary guns. Your effort didn’t even faze Mando, and he easily threw open the container, leaving you scrambling to catch your balance.

You were finally fed up as Mando stepped out onto the ramp. Instead of bidding him goodbye, you reached out and grabbed his cape, yanking him back. Mando whipped around and grabbed his cape back from you. The imbalance caused you to stumble down the ramp. Luckily, Mando was quick, and he dropped his cape and grabbed you with no hesitation.

You braced yourself on his chest plate and cleared your throat, “Mando, I would much rather go on an easy hunt with you than rot here on the ship.” You furrowed your brows, “If you were really doing me a favor here, you would let me stay back on a  _ harder  _ hunt. Just-”

Mando squeezed your waist, “No.” His hands slowly loosened and he detangled himself from you. You would never admit it to him, but you wished he had kept you in his hold. “There’s something personal that I need to do here. Alone. Without you.”

You could have tried to reason. You could have searched for leads on the quarry while he attended to his ‘personal’ business, then joined together when it was time or even let him attend to his business while bringing the quarry back to the ship and preparing for takeoff. There was no logical explanation as to why you should stay back.

But you knew his stubbornness wouldn’t give up, so you regretfully nodded, offering, “Be safe. I’ll be waiting.”

Your words were followed by an unusual movement from the Mandalorian. It looked as if he went to nod his head, but after his head dipped, he suddenly was unable to muster the strength to lift his head back up to look at your face. Instead, his visor was trained on your figure.

“You’re still wearing my shirt,” Mando said, voice flat and devoid of emotion. He wasn’t disappointed, confused, or even judgemental. He was noting, because you  _ were  _ still wearing his shirt.

“Yeah, sorry, I just didn’t get the chance to change yet.” After you and Mando spoke in his quarters, you went straight to bed, not even bothering to change. And this morning, you woke to Mando telling you that it was time to land. So, the shirt stayed. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to wash it before I hand it back.”

Mando shook his head, “No, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” Mando shifted, pushing his bag back ever so slightly, so that he could place his hand on his hip. “It suits you.”

* * *

“More Ardees?” The bartender asked.

You contemplated the offer for a moment, eyeing your empty cup. You only had two drinks, enough to relax your muscles, but you certainly didn’t want to overdue it. You could only imagine how Mando would react if he came back to you being absolutely wasted. You figured one more drink wouldn’t hurt.

You nodded, “Sure.” 

There were seven guns and at least nine other weapons, not even including your own. People of all different walks of life, professions, and relationships with the law had these weapons at their hips. Yet, not a single finger brushed a holster. Everyone was too jovial or inebriated to even consider such violence.

You didn’t speak to anyone, and nobody to you. You didn’t walk in the cantina with the bravado of a young woman looking for company, and the other inhabitants of the canina acted accordingly. Or maybe they saw the rusty (and broken, though they wouldn’t know) viroblade strapped to your thigh and the blaster at your hip and figured that you weren’t someone to bother.

Upbeat music flowed through the cantina. You had to admit, it definitely lifted your spirits. Your anger about the quarry had even diminished. You were just  _ relaxed,  _ though you would never admit it to Mando, choosing instead to forever complain about him leaving you behind on the job.

You knew Mando didn’t like cantinas. _ “Too much happening,”  _ he always said. While he wasn’t wrong, you didn’t understand why he avoided them so ardently. You didn’t consider cantinas a second home, but you definitely enjoyed spending time in them, whether to forget your woes or strike up conversation.

You were starting to get irritated at the wait for your next drink when you realized that the bartender was already standing in front of you, your drink in hand. He was frozen staring at something behind you. In his trance, the cup slipped from his hand, spilling its contents everywhere.

You furrowed your brows and fumbled for a rag to help him clean up. “Hey,” you spoke softly, slightly worried, “Are you alright?”

Then, the music stopped, and you knew something was desperately wrong. Every other patron was dead still, all staring at something behind you. While you hated to think about it, you knew what that something was. Or more accurately, you knew who that _someone_ was.

“No need to refill that drink.” A gloved hand appeared from behind you to set credits down on the counter. It rested there, impatiently tapping against the wooden bar. “I think my partner here is done for the night.”

There were only two times in your life when you knew you were royally fucked. One of them was when you stole a pile of credits from a man in a market when you were just a kid. Before you knew it, you were being dragged by your feet to the nearest Imperial station where you would spend the next few weeks in a cell with the strangest creatures you had ever seen. The second time was when you felt the digging of a rusty blade into the base of your neck and grimy fingers pressing a chip into the new opening, cementing your fate for the next years of your life. But as the Mandalorian’s gloved hand wrapped around your arm, you knew you could safely say that you could add a third moment to that list.

He dragged you out of the cantina and through the streets like you were a quarry. People watched and whispered amongst themselves, pitying the young woman dragged behind a Mandalorian. They guessed what your fault was.  _ “Maybe she stole from him,”  _ one woman chimed.  _ “I think she’s a runner,”  _ said another. Mando didn’t listen to them, or maybe he just didn’t care, because his strides remained long and difficult to keep up with.

You were dragged through the ship, up the ladder, and into the cockpit. Before the door even closed, you were sandwiched between two masses of cool metal, one of which was a being, breathing Mandalorian bounty hunter who you had severely pissed off. He was behind you, and his heavy breathing kept pushing you closer and closer into the wall.

“Do you want to explain to me why I came back to an empty ship?” Mando growled. Your arm was in his grip, angled awkwardly and pinned just above the small of you back. “I was so fucking worried,” Mando continued, “Until I saw you at that bar knocking back Jawa juice, without a care in the galaxy.”

It was then you felt it- the pressure of Mando’s length grinding against your ass.  _ Maker,  _ you thought,  _ he was enjoying this.  _ And to make your spinning mind worse, you could also feel that Mando was  _ not  _ a small man. You stifled a moan, “Mando-”

“Do you know how fucking dangerous this planet is?”

You did in fact know how dangerous the planet was. It was safe,  _ quite safe _ . Yet, feeling Mando behind you and the growing hardness against your ass made every rational thought escape your mind.

Mando hummed, “That’s what I thought.” A hand trailed down your side to the hem of your shirt- or more appropriately,  _ Mando’s shirt.  _ You hadn’t changed after Mando commented on you wearing it. His reaction just inspired you to keep it on. “Look at you, in my shirt. ‘M so glad you wore it, so they all knew you were mine.” His gloves slipped under your shirt and slowly lifted it up and off of you. “They didn’t bother you,” he murmured as his fingers traced the bottom of your chest band. After a swift movement of his hands, your breasts were exposed. “Didn’t try to take what’s mine.”

In a moment’s notice, you were no longer pressed against the wall, but instead bent over Mando’s lap in the pilot’s seat. One hand held you down by the small of your back while the other traced the hem of your pants.

You furrowed your brows, not understanding what it was that Mando was doing. It was when his fingers swiftly pulled your pants down, exposing your ass to the cold air, that you came to the dizzying realization of his plans.

“How many drinks did you have?” Mando’s voice was level, like having you bent over his lap was a normal evening. His hand smoothed over the globe of your ass, warming the flesh and soothing the goosebumps.

“T-two,” you pushed your hips back to meet his touch. A bit of shame washed over you at your movement. How the Mandalorian had reduced you to a desperate mess with so few words and light touches, you would forever wonder. It would have to remain a secret, if anyone else knew of this desperation, any respect you gained as a bounty hunter would undoubtedly be overshadowed.

Mando pulled his hand away, and you whined at the loss. The hand on your back remained, slowly trailing up and down the curve of your spine. “I want you to count. Ten times-  _ that’s it, _ mesh’la. Can you take it?”

_ “Stars,”  _ you groaned, “I can take it,  _ please…” _

“Please _w_ _ hat?”  _

Mando’s hand came down on your ass. A strangled noise escaped your lips, not because the slap was painful but because of its dizzying sudennes. As Mando’s hand pulled away, you shamelessly pushed your ass back, trying to preserve the touch.

“Please... _ fuck _ ,” you tried grinding on Mando, but to no avail. The angle he had you in was just enough that you couldn’t get any of the friction your throbbing core desperately needed. “Please-”

Mando slapped you again, this time harder, and you couldn’t hold back a moan. It was a quick slap, but left your ass with a delicious burn that made your mind spin. Instead of pulling his hand away though, he kept it right at the point of impact, letting the pain ease away with his warm touch.

“I don’t hear you counting,” Mando accentuated his last word with another slap. 

“T-three,” you clenched your thighs to alleviate some of the pressure. “Mando,  _ please,”  _ you begged, “I need-”

“I don’t care what you need,” Mando’s words were bitter, without an ounce of pity, “You’re gonna take this. You’re gonna take this because you need to learn your place. First that vagabond and now  _ this. _ ” Another slap.

_ “Four.” _

“Are you going to do that again? Go out drinking when I’m working my ass off?”

“No, no, Mando, I won’t. I  _ promise _ .” You gasped as his hand came down on you again. “Five,” you whispered.

“You know that’s not true.” Mando kept going. At some point you stopped counting, your sad attempts of keeping up just melting into mewls and gasps as you uselessly ground your hips against him. Mando was speaking to you, but you just couldn’t hear his words.

It was a tap on your face that brought you back to reality. You blinked a few times and turned to look at Mando’s blank visage.

“Get up and lean on the console. Face the window.”

The Mandalorian spoke with confidence and authority. It was obvious that he wasn’t leaving room for debate, yet you couldn’t wrap your mind fully at the command. He  _ surely  _ wasn’t asking you to do what you thought he was asking. “What?”

“Get up, and face the window.”

You sat up on his lap, the still-tender flesh of your ass against the soothing metal covering his thighs. Your exposed breasts rose and fell with each heavy breath you took. “Mando, I can’t. Someone would see me, and I’m-” 

A gloved hand came to cup your breast. Mando pinched your nipple, tugging on it so slightly that you wouldn’t have even noticed if your eyes weren’t already fixed on the scene. “Do you want to cum?” He asked cooly, like it was just a normal question.

“What?”

Mando sighed, and it was garbled by his modulator. You wondered briefly what he sounded like with it off. Would it be as detached and rough as it is with the modulator, or would his voice be full and warm, like Din’s had been that night.

The Mandalorian spoke slowly, each word enunciated in a way that your hazy mind could understand. “Do you want,” Mando paused, letting the first half of his question sink in, “to cum?” His last word was accentuated with another pinch of your nipple.

You blinked at Mando a few times.  _ What kind of question was that?  _ Of  _ course  _ you wanted to cum. The only problem was the large panes of glass placed right in front of the console. Yet, desire was stronger than any rationale you had.

Slowly, you nodded. Mando let go of your breast and tapped your thigh, “Then work for it.”

And work for it you did. You scrambled off of his lap and shuffled to the console. It was difficult to maneuver yourself with your pants around your thighs, but you made it work.

The spaceport the Crest was parked in wasn’t the busiest you’ve ever seen, not by a long shot, but it certainly wasn’t empty. People walked by, talked to one another, and tended to their ships. You breathed heavily as you watched them, praying to whatever deity was willing to listen that nobody would angle their head in your direction. The thrill of it-  _ being caught  _ -sent shameful waves of arousal crashing over you. For what felt like hours, your eyes darted from person to person, making sure you weren’t seen as heat flooded your system.

Finally, Mando spoke, “Turn around.”

You spun around and nearly cried at the sight that greeted you.

Mando sat in the pilot’s seat just as he had been before, with two key differences. The first was that he had foregone his thigh plates, which were now discarded at the bottom of the seat. And the second was- well…

His freshly ungloved hand moved slowly up and down his length, stopping only once it reached the top to gently run his thumb over the tip, leaking with precum. He was thick and long and everything that you’ve dreamed of. 

Your feet mindlessly carried you to him, and you kneel between his legs. Mando’s hand stilled as you ghosted over his length. You licked your lips, “May I?”

“No-” Mando tightened his grip and groaned, “No, I’ll take care of it myself.”

“But you don’t have to.” Logic told you to not disobey Mando and simply let him have his way, but then you gripped the hase of his length he made the most heavenly noise, and you lost the will to listen. He kriffling  _ moaned _ when your thumb brushed over his tip. It was low, guttural, and went  _ straight  _ to your soaked core.

You tried to do it again, the devolved part of your brain begging to hear that noise again, but a gloved hand clamped down on your neck and you mewled as Mando growled, “I said I’ll take care of it  _ myself.” _

“O-ok,” you stammered, too distracted by the pressure at your neck and dark void of the Mandalorian’s visor to form coherent words.

Mando’s impassive visor passed over your form, examining you. “Now apologize.”

You didn’t need any more directions. Your burning desire took over, and in a moment’s notice you were a whimpering, crying mess. You crawled onto Mando’s lap, burying your face in the crook of his neck and muttering nonsensical apologies to him,

“Please,  _ please,  _ Mando, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” you whimpered, “I’m so sorry for touching you like thay. I’m so sorry for going to that  _ stupid  _ bar. Just-  _ kriff,”  _ Mando grabbed your hips pulling you down so your dripping center was flush against his unarmored thigh. “Stars, Mando, I need to-“ You moaned when Mando flexed his thigh, putting pressure on your throbbing clit,  “Need to  _ what?” _ Mando teased, and if you weren’t so ridiculously horny you would have slapped him. “Say it, mesh’la. I want to hear it from you.”

Heat coiled deep in your stomach at his words, “I need to-“ Mando pulled you down harder against his thigh, moving your hips back and forth against the rough fabric covering it,  _ “-cum. Please,  _ Mando,  _ please.” _

“Good girl,” Mando hummed. His lazy movements guiding your ministrations picked up, actively dragging you back and forth against his thigh.

It was unceremonious and  _ so _ messy. There were no gentle kisses between lovers or even longing looks in the eyes.  _ None.  _ Instead, Mando released his grip on your hips to jerk himself off as he watched you grind on his thigh. You had to brace yourself on his shoulders as you dirtied his pants. He didn’t mind the mess. In fact, when his visor dipped to look at where your bodies met, Mando had to stop his hand so he didn’t cum just at the sight.

At some point, Mando slipped a hand down between your legs. Two gloved fingers traced your folds, teasing your dripping hole. Just when you thought Mando wasn’t going to give you what you needed, a thick finger pushed its way into you, followed by a second, while Mando’s thumb came to rub your clit. 

It was all too much, and you could feel your release closing in. “Mando,” you gasped as his fingers curled inside you, “I’m-  _ fuck-  _ gonna-”

“Cum,” Mando growled as his fingers curled inside you.

White-hot pleasure flooded your body, clouding your every sense. It was the best release you’ve had in so long, after days of pleasuring yourself in your bunk at the memory of Mando cornering you in the cockpit. This was real, though. Mando was here, coaxing you through your orgasm.

You were so caught up in the pleasure that you failed to realize that Mando had come as well. When you began to slump against him after coming down from your high, Mando stopped you. As your eyes met the mess on his armor, you understood why. He slowly removed his fingers from you, wiping the wetness off on his pants. You could tell by the way Mando looked around the cockpit in a somewhat frantic way that he didn’t quite know what to use to clean up  _ his  _ mess.

Actually, there was an easy solution-  _ your shirt.  _ Yet, the Mandalorian was too polite and would  _ never  _ use your clothing like that. So, you took the initiative.

You didn’t look at the mess,  _ no.  _ Instead, your eyes were trained on the black visor that stared right back at you. As you dragged your shirt against the smooth metal, Mando’s modulator pumped out the noise of his unsteady breathing. You were never usually able to hear it, as it was too quiet for the modulator to pick up, that is, unless he was breathing hard.   
  
When Mando was cleaned up and tucked back in his flight pants, you tossed the dirtied shirt off to the side. “I think I’m gonna turn in tonight,” you said, trying to gauge Mando’s reaction. The truth was, you wanted to stay with him, but you didn’t know where your relationship stood and if he would even want you to stay.

However, Mando made your heart swell when his hand tightened its grip on your waist as he said, “Wait.”

The Mandalorian reached over to his bag, which had been discarded on the ground. He hastily fumbled with it, before slowing his movements once he got the cover off. His movements were deliberate as his gloved hand slowly pushed around the contents of the bag before stopping. You were confused at first, but once his hand reappeared, you realized the justification for his tenderness.

A knife rested in his hands. You didn’t even need him to open his mouth to help you identify the luxuries that it consisted of. It had an aurodium hilt, ornately accented with a pearlescent material. Then there was the blade, it was a shiny gray metal. If you hadn’t known better you would have just assumed it was just common scrap metal like most knives, but the way it caught the light was so familiar to you. The metal mirrored the appearance of the Mandalorian’s armor.

The Mandalorian had made a knife out of the galaxy’s finest materials just for you. It had to have been worth a small fortune. You felt sick at the prospect of possessing such a luxurious item. “Mando,” you said, “I can’t-”

_ “Take it,”  _ Mando carefully held the blade as he pressed the hilt into your hands. “It’s made for you.

As your fingers wrapped around the hilt, you realized that it  _ was  _ made for you. The hilt was not plain, as you examined it you noted specific dips in the shape, those only found in pieces made custom to fit a buyer’s hands. You wrapped your hand around the hilt and chuckled at the way it fit so perfectly in your palm.

“What did I do to deserve this?”

The Mandalorian shifted, and you had to brace yourself with your free hand so you didn’t slide off of his lap. “Today,” he started, pausing to choose his words, “marks six months that you’ve been traveling with me.”

_ It’s a thank you,  _ you realized. You did your best to hide the shock you felt from your face, because if there was anything you expected from Mando, it was  _ not  _ something like this. Though, you knew the Mandalorian would never admit that the knife was actually a sign of thanks. It wasn’t in his nature.

Though, his next words made it impossible for you to keep a straight face. “It’s less lonely with you here, and I…” Mando swallowed, while you gaped, “I like that. So, the blade… it’s for you.”   


You laughed. It wasn’t judgemental or mocking. Instead, you laughed because you were so overwhelmed. Something about the gift, followed by his words made your heart flutter. Add in the fact that you were still shirtless and (mostly) pantsless after he had just bent you over his legs, spanked you, and then made you cum on his thigh, you were definitely in a  _ state.  _

“Thank you, Mando,” you muttered.

As if you were possessed, you leaned in to place a kiss on Mando’s helmet, where you assumed his cheek would be.

It was a moment heavy with unspoken feelings. As you pulled away, you could feel Mando’s grip on you tighten, still light enough that you had freedom to move as you wish.

You knew what Mando was doing. He was giving you a chance to leave. He was telling you that you had the freedom to turn him down at any moment. 

Instead, you settled deeper into his hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> aye so lmk if i should make a part 2 or make it into a series and also just like what you think in general


End file.
